A Proper Removal by Michael New
Marcus is stuck on a report, and running out of time before the deadline, when his friend Ruth calls him up in need of his help.
Marcus sits in his office by the garage, staring at the spreadsheet, fingers nervously tapping on the keyboard, thinking: Well, you brought it all on yourself.
Why did he even open his mouth when Mr. Frigstad asked who could handle optoelectronics?
The reports stacked up in his office form a collage in his mind of an industry resembling something, at this point, painted by Kandinsky.
Within a couple of days, he was drowning in information. He knew he had to synthesize, but with each attempt, his thinking became tighter, more restricted, and confused.
It's already Tuesday afternoon. By ten o'clock tomorrow morning, his report must be emailed to Mr. Frigstad.
He leans back, stretches, and spots his phone on the bookcase. He steps over the dirty carpet, between piles of books and reports, and picks up the phone.
Before he reaches his desk, his phone vibrates.
Ruth.
"Rafferty's dead," she says.
"Dead?" Marcus asks. "Did he get run over?"
"No! He just died."
"That's too bad."
"I need your help."
That she needs his help, Marcus already knows as he steps out of his office door. But the morning air feels fresh. In the strait, a tugboat grinds out of San Pablo Bay toward the delta, pushing a barge loaded with crushed stone for the levees.
"I have a lot of work," he says, making his way through the garden to the steps at the back of the house.
To tie him into her drama, Ruth recounts the whole story. "I thought he'd gotten out again and was somewhere in the neighborhood, so I searched all over the place and didn't find him until yesterday afternoon when I was down in the basement."
"Dead," Marcus says.
"Yes," Ruth says, bubbling through her tears.
"That's too bad. Rafferty was a good dog."
"Rafferty was a god."
"No wonder you're upset."
"I need you," Ruth pleads.
"I'm trying to finish up an important report."
"I have to have your help."
"All right," he finally says. "I'm on my way."
He climbs the stairs. At the door, he pauses and glances back down at his office, his stomach sinking, then he turns resolutely and steps inside the kitchen.
When he whispers to Angelina, who's half asleep, about what he's doing, she mumbles that he should do whatever he thinks best.
He locks the house and steps off the porch.
He climbs through the maze of chicken walks to Ruth's house near the top of the hill. He passes her beat-up Toyota, descends the narrow concrete path beside her house, then climbs the rotting wooden steps to her back door. Unlocked, as always. He opens it and calls out.
"I'm here!"
"Oh, good," Ruth says from the living room, moving out onto the deck.
He steps into the kitchen and is greeted by the stench of rotting meat, spoiled milk, and moldy fruit. The sink is full of dirty dishes. Open cans of chili and peaches sit on the island counter.
He spots Ruth sitting in an Adirondack chair on the deck, silver-streaked hair loose around her shoulders, a wineglass tilted precariously in her slack hand. A thin thread of smoke rises from a forgotten cigarette in the ashtray beside her, the ash a perfect cylinder, longer than the remaining tobacco. The queen on her throne, surveying her kingdom, while at her back, her palace rots.
As Marcus approaches, passing into the living room and out the sliding glass door onto the deck, she looks around and scowls up at him.
"Did you get lost?"
"In a way," Marcus says.
Ruth takes a joint out of the pocket of her blue cotton shirt, lights it, takes a deep drag, and hands it to Marcus, who puffs gingerly before quickly returning it.
"You're not smoking?"
"It's a little early, and I have a report to get out. What's going on?"
"Rafferty's funeral," Ruth says, teary-eyed. "He's in the cooler."
"In the cooler?"
Marcus pauses. That's the smell in the kitchen. He turns and spots the cooler in the corner behind the door.
Marcus turns away from the cooler, coughing, and stares down at the hill, the trees, the roofs of houses.
"When did he die?" he asks.
"I don't know. I found him yesterday, but I think he'd been dead for a while. He already stinks."
"I agree."
"I didn't know what to do when I found him, so I just put him in the cooler."
"So, do you want me to dig a hole and bury him?"
Ruth lifts her head imperiously, swallows, then licks her lips.
"Rafferty was Hindu."
Marcus gazes open-mouthed out the sliding doors at Ruth.
"Many are," he finally says.
"Rafferty was my spiritual companion for fifteen years," Ruth says.
"That's a long time."
"We meditated together."
Marcus nods, his lips tightly clamped.
"He was present for my enlightenment."
"Naturally," Marcus says.
"I have to give him a proper send-off." Ruth's big eyes glimmer.
Marcus dips and bobs his head slowly, repeatedly, remembering his years as Ruth's friend. She made money as a child TV star. He met her agent once in Hollywood. For twenty years, she ran the Port Carthage Theater during the summers until it burned down a decade or so ago. Since then, she's cycled through every spiritual practice from TM to Hinduism, always with complete conviction. Twenty years ago, she'd helped Marcus find his first clients. He owes her.
"OK, what do we have to do? Let's do it."
Ruth beams.
"I knew you'd help me."
"What kind of proper send-off did you have in mind?" Marcus asks.
"Cremation," Ruth states firmly.
"OK," he says, trying to keep this moving so he can get back home and back to work.
"By the river," Ruth says. "It's where Rafferty and I walked every morning."
Marcus draws his forehead up and stares goggle-eyed.
"Do you realize how hot and dry it is?"
"Of course," she says. "We'll be careful."
"Did you see that fire last night over on Mare Island?"
"I was watching television."
"I think we need a second plan," Marcus says. "Maybe choose another place, like on the beach, at the ocean?"
Ruth laughs. "On the beach? At the ocean?"
"Doesn't that sound groovy?"
"You're not as funny as you think," Ruth says. "This is serious to me."
Marcus bows his head and apologizes.
"Rafferty loved it down by the river. I want to cremate him there."
"Come on, Ruth." He glances back at the filthy kitchen with the stinking cooler. "How about if we drive up into the mountains?"
"Moksha," Ruth supplies.
"Is that Hindu Heaven?"
"Sort of. Just like not having to put up with all this shit anymore."
"How about out in the tules?"
"What are you talking about?"
"Out in the delta. Same water that flows down there." He gestures toward the strait.
Ruth hums, purses her lips, and glances from side to side. "Not a bad idea."
"Let's get it done. I have a report to write."
"You'll be fine. We'll take your truck; my car's not running. Put Rafferty in the back."
Then she disappears into the bathroom.
Marcus puts on rubber gloves he found under the sink, grabs the cooler, and heads to Ruth's Toyota Corolla.
Ruth emerges twenty minutes later wearing a flowing kaftan in shades of purple and orange, her gray hair braided and wound around her head like a corona.
"I was saying prayers," she explains. "For Rafferty's journey."
They drive through Port Carthage toward the delta. Marcus stops several times to pick up wood until he has nearly filled the truck bed.
"How much is it going to take?" Ruth asks, fidgeting. "He was just a miniature poodle."
"It'll take more than you think. That's why there's more danger of getting caught. We're going to have to cook that little fellow a long time."
"How long?"
"Hours!"
"It'll be dark," Ruth says.
Marcus nods. "That's right. That's why we need to drive up in those tules."
"You'll get lost."
"I always know where I am and where I'm going."
"All right," Rush says. "Let's do."
Marcus walks home, leaves a note for Angelina, who has left for work, and drives back up to Ruth's in his truck. He loads Rafferty in his cooler, secures the cooler by tying it to a D-ring on the bed of the truck, and they take off. The sun is overhead and hot, but the air blowing up the strait is cool and fresh. They listen to the radio and talk about old times.
It takes them an hour to reach the tules, and they drive around another two through the delta's maze. Ruth declares, "We're lost."
"Temporarily."
Finally, Ruth tells Marcus to pull over. "This is fine. We haven't seen another car since we turned off Pacheco Boulevard."
The sun is going down when he at last carries Rafferty's cooler, and he eventually finds the perfect place behind a tall rock.
Ruth, breathing deeply, kneels with her back to the rock, her hands pressed together, and begins to pray.
Marcus constructs the pyre, lays Rafferty on top, and sets the twigs on fire. Flames soon consume Rafferty's hair, producing a noxious odor with the wood smoke.
"Would you people mind please telling me what's going on?" demands a young deputy, standing between the rock and a line of tules. "You can't do this. It's against the law. Put that fire out right now, and you're both under arrest for attempted arson."
Ruth raises her head. "Who are you?"
"Deputy Sheriff Ronny Thomas. Get that fire put out before you burn down Concord."
"This is a religious service," Ruth says. "The Constitution guarantees our right to worship any way we want."
The deputy shakes his head. "Religious?"
"Yes! Now, be quiet and leave us alone."
The deputy sighs and turns to Marcus. "Can you explain to me what this is all about? That fire needs to be put out."
Before Marcus can reply, the deputy's eyes bug out. "What is that?" he shouts, pointing to the fire where the blaze has covered Rafferty.
"A dog," Marcus says solemnly.
"A miniature poodle," Ruth adds. "I was praying when you barged in. This is like a temple now, a church. Could you have a little respect?"
The deputy's mouth falls open. He paces.
"Are you people on drugs?" he whispers. "You're acting funny."
"Ruth's been drinking and smoking dope," Marcus says, "but not me. I have work to do."
The deputy straightens up. "What's this all about?"
"Rafferty was Hindu," Marcus says.
"Rafferty?"
"The dog," Marcus says.
"He was a miniature poodle!" Ruth corrects loudly.
"The dog was a Hindu?" The deputy wrinkles his brow. "That's a religion."
"The largest religion in the world!" Ruth insists.
The deputy scratches the back of his head. "Fire's a bit bigger than regulations allow. But I suppose if it's properly contained, and you have some experience with these religious sorts of things..."
His finger and thumb compressing his lower lip, the deputy stares at the fire and the burning corpse of Rafferty.
"The dog was Hindu," he mumbles to himself. "I've never heard of that before."
"It was news to me too," Marcus says, "but why not? Don't you think there are Christian dogs?"
The deputy looks up, the whites of his eyes on full display, and his mouth gaping.
"Christian dogs?"
"Don't you think Christian people have Christian dogs?" Marcus asks.
"I guess," the deputy says.
"So, it's a religious thing," Marcus says. "You don't have to worry. We'll be careful. I won't let the fire spread. We don't need flames, just enough hot coals to burn all the flesh away. We won't worry about the bones."
"We'll scatter the bones out there in the water," Ruth says.
"Right," Marcus agrees. "I'll pour water on the ashes and everything, then to make sure it's out, I'll just scatter it all around down there, away from the tules."
The deputy appears ready to depart but hesitates, staring at Rafferty's burning body.
"I had a dog," he says in a low voice. "He got run over. Blanco. White Chihuahua. I was a little kid, and I told my parents at the kitchen table one night that I was glad I'd see Blanco again someday in Heaven."
He pauses and looks away, then turns back.
"My dad and mom told me there weren't any dogs in Heaven. Wasn't nothing but human beings and God." He shakes his head. "It bothered me real bad that Blanco wouldn't be in Heaven, too. I was a little kid, but I remember that."
He looks out toward the delta, then sighs and shakes his head. "You people go on with what you're doing. I'm sorry I came in like gangbusters. I'm new. Anyway, be careful." He waves as he disappears into the darkness.
Ruth prays. Marcus walks around, sits in the truck, thinks about his work, and beats the steering wheel. He dozes off, wakes with a start, and hurries back to check the fire.
The stink of burning meat has diminished as Rafferty becomes ash.
They drive home with the sun coming up over the Sierras. Ruth dozes and snores, leaning against the passenger window.
"Thank you," she says as Marcus navigates Highway 4. "I know you thought Rafferty was just a dog."
"A good dog," Marcus says.
"But he was very special to me."
"I know. That's why I helped."
"I loved him," she says.
At Ruth's house, Marcus parks, tosses the cooler in the garbage, and tells Ruth goodbye.
"You're a good friend," Ruth says, standing on the grass by the curb, old and sad.
Trotting down the chicken walks, Marcus feels released from reality's grip. The morning light illuminates the whole world.
By the time he's on the sidewalk, his thoughts return to the market research report due at ten o'clock.
On the porch, he unlocks the door, steps in, and hurries into the kitchen, where he starts the kettle, then dashes into the bathroom, strips, showers, and returns to the kitchen naked to make coffee.
He carries the coffee into the bedroom, kisses Angelina on the cheek, and whispers he's going to work.
"Get dressed first," Angelina mumbles.
Dressed and back in the kitchen, he drinks coffee, putting Ruth and Rafferty out of his mind, and bringing what he knows about the optoelectronics industry into his consciousness.
He drops down the steps with his third cup of coffee.
He opens the Excel file. The office seems less gloomy than twenty-four hours ago, and the data almost at once begins to make sense.
He wrinkles his brow and squints at his screen, leaning forward.
How had he missed the obvious?
He sits back, admires the light out the window. Things begin to fall in place.
He has ignored so much that's there - the global markets, China's involvement in South America and Africa, Russia, and the Middle East. The more pieces he places strategically, the clearer the picture becomes.
He calls up all the data on the worldwide telecommunications industry.
Blurs become comprehensible parts of the puzzle. Relationships make sense. He feels the noose around his neck loosening. The derivatives and trend curves start to suggest themselves.
He shoots up from his chair, lifts his hands in victory, and calls up the Allman Brothers doing Statesboro Blues on Spotify, and plays it loud.
Hallelujah!
He puts his report together and emails it to Mr. Frigstad well before ten o'clock.
By noon, Mr. Frigstad texts him: "Best report I've read in years. Everybody I've sent it to says you know what you're talking about. This will be remembered. I guarantee it."
He stands and stretches, staring toward the Sierras, then into the cold wind coming from the west.
By then, Ruth is waking up with the sun high overhead and a splitting headache.
She rises and fills her glass with wine again. This is what Rafferty would want.
She lights another joint for the same reason, then raises a silent toast to Rafferty, to Marcus, to the nameless deputy, to all the fleeting joys of a life spent in pursuit of love and hope in the face of death.
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Why did he even open his mouth when Mr. Frigstad asked who could handle optoelectronics?
The reports stacked up in his office form a collage in his mind of an industry resembling something, at this point, painted by Kandinsky.
Within a couple of days, he was drowning in information. He knew he had to synthesize, but with each attempt, his thinking became tighter, more restricted, and confused.
It's already Tuesday afternoon. By ten o'clock tomorrow morning, his report must be emailed to Mr. Frigstad.
He leans back, stretches, and spots his phone on the bookcase. He steps over the dirty carpet, between piles of books and reports, and picks up the phone.
Before he reaches his desk, his phone vibrates.
Ruth.
"Rafferty's dead," she says.
"Dead?" Marcus asks. "Did he get run over?"
"No! He just died."
"That's too bad."
"I need your help."
That she needs his help, Marcus already knows as he steps out of his office door. But the morning air feels fresh. In the strait, a tugboat grinds out of San Pablo Bay toward the delta, pushing a barge loaded with crushed stone for the levees.
"I have a lot of work," he says, making his way through the garden to the steps at the back of the house.
To tie him into her drama, Ruth recounts the whole story. "I thought he'd gotten out again and was somewhere in the neighborhood, so I searched all over the place and didn't find him until yesterday afternoon when I was down in the basement."
"Dead," Marcus says.
"Yes," Ruth says, bubbling through her tears.
"That's too bad. Rafferty was a good dog."
"Rafferty was a god."
"No wonder you're upset."
"I need you," Ruth pleads.
"I'm trying to finish up an important report."
"I have to have your help."
"All right," he finally says. "I'm on my way."
He climbs the stairs. At the door, he pauses and glances back down at his office, his stomach sinking, then he turns resolutely and steps inside the kitchen.
When he whispers to Angelina, who's half asleep, about what he's doing, she mumbles that he should do whatever he thinks best.
He locks the house and steps off the porch.
He climbs through the maze of chicken walks to Ruth's house near the top of the hill. He passes her beat-up Toyota, descends the narrow concrete path beside her house, then climbs the rotting wooden steps to her back door. Unlocked, as always. He opens it and calls out.
"I'm here!"
"Oh, good," Ruth says from the living room, moving out onto the deck.
He steps into the kitchen and is greeted by the stench of rotting meat, spoiled milk, and moldy fruit. The sink is full of dirty dishes. Open cans of chili and peaches sit on the island counter.
He spots Ruth sitting in an Adirondack chair on the deck, silver-streaked hair loose around her shoulders, a wineglass tilted precariously in her slack hand. A thin thread of smoke rises from a forgotten cigarette in the ashtray beside her, the ash a perfect cylinder, longer than the remaining tobacco. The queen on her throne, surveying her kingdom, while at her back, her palace rots.
As Marcus approaches, passing into the living room and out the sliding glass door onto the deck, she looks around and scowls up at him.
"Did you get lost?"
"In a way," Marcus says.
Ruth takes a joint out of the pocket of her blue cotton shirt, lights it, takes a deep drag, and hands it to Marcus, who puffs gingerly before quickly returning it.
"You're not smoking?"
"It's a little early, and I have a report to get out. What's going on?"
"Rafferty's funeral," Ruth says, teary-eyed. "He's in the cooler."
"In the cooler?"
Marcus pauses. That's the smell in the kitchen. He turns and spots the cooler in the corner behind the door.
Marcus turns away from the cooler, coughing, and stares down at the hill, the trees, the roofs of houses.
"When did he die?" he asks.
"I don't know. I found him yesterday, but I think he'd been dead for a while. He already stinks."
"I agree."
"I didn't know what to do when I found him, so I just put him in the cooler."
"So, do you want me to dig a hole and bury him?"
Ruth lifts her head imperiously, swallows, then licks her lips.
"Rafferty was Hindu."
Marcus gazes open-mouthed out the sliding doors at Ruth.
"Many are," he finally says.
"Rafferty was my spiritual companion for fifteen years," Ruth says.
"That's a long time."
"We meditated together."
Marcus nods, his lips tightly clamped.
"He was present for my enlightenment."
"Naturally," Marcus says.
"I have to give him a proper send-off." Ruth's big eyes glimmer.
Marcus dips and bobs his head slowly, repeatedly, remembering his years as Ruth's friend. She made money as a child TV star. He met her agent once in Hollywood. For twenty years, she ran the Port Carthage Theater during the summers until it burned down a decade or so ago. Since then, she's cycled through every spiritual practice from TM to Hinduism, always with complete conviction. Twenty years ago, she'd helped Marcus find his first clients. He owes her.
"OK, what do we have to do? Let's do it."
Ruth beams.
"I knew you'd help me."
"What kind of proper send-off did you have in mind?" Marcus asks.
"Cremation," Ruth states firmly.
"OK," he says, trying to keep this moving so he can get back home and back to work.
"By the river," Ruth says. "It's where Rafferty and I walked every morning."
Marcus draws his forehead up and stares goggle-eyed.
"Do you realize how hot and dry it is?"
"Of course," she says. "We'll be careful."
"Did you see that fire last night over on Mare Island?"
"I was watching television."
"I think we need a second plan," Marcus says. "Maybe choose another place, like on the beach, at the ocean?"
Ruth laughs. "On the beach? At the ocean?"
"Doesn't that sound groovy?"
"You're not as funny as you think," Ruth says. "This is serious to me."
Marcus bows his head and apologizes.
"Rafferty loved it down by the river. I want to cremate him there."
"Come on, Ruth." He glances back at the filthy kitchen with the stinking cooler. "How about if we drive up into the mountains?"
"Moksha," Ruth supplies.
"Is that Hindu Heaven?"
"Sort of. Just like not having to put up with all this shit anymore."
"How about out in the tules?"
"What are you talking about?"
"Out in the delta. Same water that flows down there." He gestures toward the strait.
Ruth hums, purses her lips, and glances from side to side. "Not a bad idea."
"Let's get it done. I have a report to write."
"You'll be fine. We'll take your truck; my car's not running. Put Rafferty in the back."
Then she disappears into the bathroom.
Marcus puts on rubber gloves he found under the sink, grabs the cooler, and heads to Ruth's Toyota Corolla.
Ruth emerges twenty minutes later wearing a flowing kaftan in shades of purple and orange, her gray hair braided and wound around her head like a corona.
"I was saying prayers," she explains. "For Rafferty's journey."
They drive through Port Carthage toward the delta. Marcus stops several times to pick up wood until he has nearly filled the truck bed.
"How much is it going to take?" Ruth asks, fidgeting. "He was just a miniature poodle."
"It'll take more than you think. That's why there's more danger of getting caught. We're going to have to cook that little fellow a long time."
"How long?"
"Hours!"
"It'll be dark," Ruth says.
Marcus nods. "That's right. That's why we need to drive up in those tules."
"You'll get lost."
"I always know where I am and where I'm going."
"All right," Rush says. "Let's do."
Marcus walks home, leaves a note for Angelina, who has left for work, and drives back up to Ruth's in his truck. He loads Rafferty in his cooler, secures the cooler by tying it to a D-ring on the bed of the truck, and they take off. The sun is overhead and hot, but the air blowing up the strait is cool and fresh. They listen to the radio and talk about old times.
It takes them an hour to reach the tules, and they drive around another two through the delta's maze. Ruth declares, "We're lost."
"Temporarily."
Finally, Ruth tells Marcus to pull over. "This is fine. We haven't seen another car since we turned off Pacheco Boulevard."
The sun is going down when he at last carries Rafferty's cooler, and he eventually finds the perfect place behind a tall rock.
Ruth, breathing deeply, kneels with her back to the rock, her hands pressed together, and begins to pray.
Marcus constructs the pyre, lays Rafferty on top, and sets the twigs on fire. Flames soon consume Rafferty's hair, producing a noxious odor with the wood smoke.
"Would you people mind please telling me what's going on?" demands a young deputy, standing between the rock and a line of tules. "You can't do this. It's against the law. Put that fire out right now, and you're both under arrest for attempted arson."
Ruth raises her head. "Who are you?"
"Deputy Sheriff Ronny Thomas. Get that fire put out before you burn down Concord."
"This is a religious service," Ruth says. "The Constitution guarantees our right to worship any way we want."
The deputy shakes his head. "Religious?"
"Yes! Now, be quiet and leave us alone."
The deputy sighs and turns to Marcus. "Can you explain to me what this is all about? That fire needs to be put out."
Before Marcus can reply, the deputy's eyes bug out. "What is that?" he shouts, pointing to the fire where the blaze has covered Rafferty.
"A dog," Marcus says solemnly.
"A miniature poodle," Ruth adds. "I was praying when you barged in. This is like a temple now, a church. Could you have a little respect?"
The deputy's mouth falls open. He paces.
"Are you people on drugs?" he whispers. "You're acting funny."
"Ruth's been drinking and smoking dope," Marcus says, "but not me. I have work to do."
The deputy straightens up. "What's this all about?"
"Rafferty was Hindu," Marcus says.
"Rafferty?"
"The dog," Marcus says.
"He was a miniature poodle!" Ruth corrects loudly.
"The dog was a Hindu?" The deputy wrinkles his brow. "That's a religion."
"The largest religion in the world!" Ruth insists.
The deputy scratches the back of his head. "Fire's a bit bigger than regulations allow. But I suppose if it's properly contained, and you have some experience with these religious sorts of things..."
His finger and thumb compressing his lower lip, the deputy stares at the fire and the burning corpse of Rafferty.
"The dog was Hindu," he mumbles to himself. "I've never heard of that before."
"It was news to me too," Marcus says, "but why not? Don't you think there are Christian dogs?"
The deputy looks up, the whites of his eyes on full display, and his mouth gaping.
"Christian dogs?"
"Don't you think Christian people have Christian dogs?" Marcus asks.
"I guess," the deputy says.
"So, it's a religious thing," Marcus says. "You don't have to worry. We'll be careful. I won't let the fire spread. We don't need flames, just enough hot coals to burn all the flesh away. We won't worry about the bones."
"We'll scatter the bones out there in the water," Ruth says.
"Right," Marcus agrees. "I'll pour water on the ashes and everything, then to make sure it's out, I'll just scatter it all around down there, away from the tules."
The deputy appears ready to depart but hesitates, staring at Rafferty's burning body.
"I had a dog," he says in a low voice. "He got run over. Blanco. White Chihuahua. I was a little kid, and I told my parents at the kitchen table one night that I was glad I'd see Blanco again someday in Heaven."
He pauses and looks away, then turns back.
"My dad and mom told me there weren't any dogs in Heaven. Wasn't nothing but human beings and God." He shakes his head. "It bothered me real bad that Blanco wouldn't be in Heaven, too. I was a little kid, but I remember that."
He looks out toward the delta, then sighs and shakes his head. "You people go on with what you're doing. I'm sorry I came in like gangbusters. I'm new. Anyway, be careful." He waves as he disappears into the darkness.
Ruth prays. Marcus walks around, sits in the truck, thinks about his work, and beats the steering wheel. He dozes off, wakes with a start, and hurries back to check the fire.
The stink of burning meat has diminished as Rafferty becomes ash.
They drive home with the sun coming up over the Sierras. Ruth dozes and snores, leaning against the passenger window.
"Thank you," she says as Marcus navigates Highway 4. "I know you thought Rafferty was just a dog."
"A good dog," Marcus says.
"But he was very special to me."
"I know. That's why I helped."
"I loved him," she says.
At Ruth's house, Marcus parks, tosses the cooler in the garbage, and tells Ruth goodbye.
"You're a good friend," Ruth says, standing on the grass by the curb, old and sad.
Trotting down the chicken walks, Marcus feels released from reality's grip. The morning light illuminates the whole world.
By the time he's on the sidewalk, his thoughts return to the market research report due at ten o'clock.
On the porch, he unlocks the door, steps in, and hurries into the kitchen, where he starts the kettle, then dashes into the bathroom, strips, showers, and returns to the kitchen naked to make coffee.
He carries the coffee into the bedroom, kisses Angelina on the cheek, and whispers he's going to work.
"Get dressed first," Angelina mumbles.
Dressed and back in the kitchen, he drinks coffee, putting Ruth and Rafferty out of his mind, and bringing what he knows about the optoelectronics industry into his consciousness.
He drops down the steps with his third cup of coffee.
He opens the Excel file. The office seems less gloomy than twenty-four hours ago, and the data almost at once begins to make sense.
He wrinkles his brow and squints at his screen, leaning forward.
How had he missed the obvious?
He sits back, admires the light out the window. Things begin to fall in place.
He has ignored so much that's there - the global markets, China's involvement in South America and Africa, Russia, and the Middle East. The more pieces he places strategically, the clearer the picture becomes.
He calls up all the data on the worldwide telecommunications industry.
Blurs become comprehensible parts of the puzzle. Relationships make sense. He feels the noose around his neck loosening. The derivatives and trend curves start to suggest themselves.
He shoots up from his chair, lifts his hands in victory, and calls up the Allman Brothers doing Statesboro Blues on Spotify, and plays it loud.
Hallelujah!
He puts his report together and emails it to Mr. Frigstad well before ten o'clock.
By noon, Mr. Frigstad texts him: "Best report I've read in years. Everybody I've sent it to says you know what you're talking about. This will be remembered. I guarantee it."
He stands and stretches, staring toward the Sierras, then into the cold wind coming from the west.
By then, Ruth is waking up with the sun high overhead and a splitting headache.
She rises and fills her glass with wine again. This is what Rafferty would want.
She lights another joint for the same reason, then raises a silent toast to Rafferty, to Marcus, to the nameless deputy, to all the fleeting joys of a life spent in pursuit of love and hope in the face of death.
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